


Lovely

by theinvalidedsoldier



Series: Songs with Spideypool [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, ddd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 13:12:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15686112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinvalidedsoldier/pseuds/theinvalidedsoldier
Summary: OKaY sO.This most decidedly did not go in the direction that I wanted it to go in, but the outcome is pretty decent in my opinion. I really hope it's easy to follow, and that I didn't over-convolute things - it's a habit of mine.Enjoy!





	Lovely

**Author's Note:**

> OKaY sO. 
> 
> This most decidedly did not go in the direction that I wanted it to go in, but the outcome is pretty decent in my opinion. I really hope it's easy to follow, and that I didn't over-convolute things - it's a habit of mine.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Thought I found a way,_  
_Thought I found a way, yeah._  
_But you never go away,_  
_So I guess I gotta stay now._

 

It was almost comical how fast Peter's life could go from semi-decent to catastrophically fucked in a matter of  _hours._  

  A sudden change in temperament, a mild inconvenience or a temporary slip-up, that's all it took for the cycle to start up all over again. 

  He wasn't alone. He knew he wasn't alone, though his Head so belligerently reminded him of how alone, and angsty he was- _blah, blah, blah._ He knew he had someone, he had Wade. His wondrous boyfriend of two years, who also doubled as his partner-in-vigilante-slash-superheroism, the title was a work in progress.

  Peter had thought that maybe, just maybe he could catch a break. Wade made him happy. Happier than he had ever known, happier than he could ever remember. Wade had problems of his own, absolutely, so they both took each other on at face value. It was enough for Peter, but it wasn't enough for his Head, which was is its own separate entity.

  Wade wasn't enough to make it go away, but that wasn't his fault.

 

_Oh, I hope_ some day _I'll make it out of here,_  
_Even if it takes all night or a hundred years._  
_Need a place to hide, but I can't find one near,_  
_Wanna feel alive, outside I can fight my fear._  

 

With all of his might, Peter tried. He tried and tried, fruitlessly hoping to cure his Head that made him feel crushed and claustrophobic, and airy and flimsy all at once. The crushing existentialism that weighed down upon his young mind like a two-ton weight, the immensity of the fact that his actions will never truly benefit any one person for long enough to make a difference. He will end up dead one way or another, mangled in the back of an alley, stabbed whilst on patrol, or by just completely jumping the gun and biting the bullet by his own hand out of sheer frustration in having to  _live_.

  The guilt he felt for feeling utterly lonely, and worthless, even though he knew that he had his Aunt and partner by his side to help him. It was an affliction he hadn't asked for, a burden that he tried to keep to himself, but when the inevitable explosion came to pass it was a steadfast burden he passed to everyone else, too.

  Peter was stuck in a dark crater of his own creation, stuck six feet underground in the complete darkness. It was suffocating and invasive, but not to the extent that he would asphyxiate. Unfortunately. He was always just teetering on the edge of being swallowed up by his own misery, and subsequent guilt for being such a fucking misery.

  At night he would wake up in a flurry of rapid movements, and gasps for air. The air didn't feel euphoric when it entered his pseudo-deprived lungs, it didn't feel like anything. Not even the beads of sweat making their way down his neck could make him really  _feel_ the way he needed to, the way he craved to feel.

  The broad figure next to him would stir, even after months of sleeping in the same bed as each other, Wade was unaccustomed to a ruckus in the bedroom. And yes, Peter was absolutely aware that Wade would've taken that innuendo-laden sentence as an inclination to make a crude joke. And a sturdy hand would ground him back to reality with a squeeze to the shoulder.

  "Hey, hey, hey. Come here," Wade would say, lowering him back down to a recumbent position, voice groggy with sleep. The ever pliable Peter would allow the coercion, and he would slowly but surely be whispered back to a more interminable sleep to the rocks of his and Wade's chests heaving lightly in unison. Outside of sleeping, living was easier, because his Head was more attuned to New York's grating honks and clangs. But at night, when doors were shut and curtains were drawn, Peter would feel himself nonconsensually withdrawing into the headspace. And then he's gone.

 

_Isn't it lovely, all alone?_  
_Heart made of glass, my mind of stone._  
_Tear me to pieces, skin and bone,_  
_Hello, welcome home._

 

  Peter had told him to fuck off. He had told Wade to fuck off, and Wade did. The one time he had decided to listen to Peter ever, and it had to be that moment. 

  His Head told him that it was better that way because when he's  _truly_ lonely, not pseudo-lonely or angsty-lonely, he can't drag anyone back into the depths of shit and piss and hell that is a relationship with him. He can't bother those around him that matter, he won't have to watch their patience deteriorate as they slowly come to the realisation of what they've gotten themselves into. Because that's most certainly  _not_ what they signed up for. If they're gone, Peter won't have to stick around to watch the hurt seep into them as they realise that they can't fix him or make him better no matter how hard they try. Wade signed up for Peter to be the sane one, not the other way around.

  Though he felt numb all over, like a severed connection, or a loose wire, Peter did find himself getting too invested in people all too easily. Which is exactly what he had done with Deadpool. It wasn't how it was supposed to go, but nothing in life ever went the way Peter dictated it anyways.

  At first, he thought it was a blessing. Something completely unplanned and unasked for, but completely welcome, a relationship with his best friend. But he had gotten his hopes up, he had set the expectations that he wasn't aware existed too high. He set out hope, maybe Wade could fix him. Maybe he would be the one. Evidently, he was wrong. It was against the rules, it wasn't allowed. It didn't correlate with the plan that his Head had for him, so Wade had to go, even if it tore Peter apart. Which it did.

  But things were back to they were before the ex-merc had entered his life, and though it was literally nobodies ideal idea of living and maintaining, things were back to the way they should be. With Peter closed off from those he had let in, so he couldn't fuck them over any more than he already had.

  Peter was floating endlessly again, like a bad trip on ecstasy he couldn't come down from, or like being locked in a closet with only a vague idea of the whereabouts of the key.

 

_Walkin' out of town,_  
_Lookin' for a better place._  
_Something's on my mind,_  
_Always in my headspace._

 

 Peter lingered just outside the boundaries of Wade's apartment block. He hadn't consciously decided to go there, he only remembered leaving his own apartment, taking the subway, and letting his feet carry him to possible oblivion. Which he was fine with. 

  What he most decidedly wasn't fine with was the anxiety coursing through his veins as he stepped into the doorway outside the complex, a desensitized finger reaching for the buzzer. He barely registered pressing it, just how he barely registered the door opening, and barely registered his name being called. 

  "Peter?" It echoed at the back of his head, he could hear it.  _Couldn't he?_ It was real, right? It couldn't have been a scenario of his own device, or a figment of his imagination. Not even Peter was that creative.

  "Pete, are you okay?" The hands that he loved so much, the hands that he craved, devoured, worshipped, clamped down on him in a similar fashion to that of his late-night/early-morning freakouts. 

  His face felt tingly, and flushed, akin to the aftermath of a panic attack. His cheeks were moist, but how could that have been? It most certainly hadn't been raining, not since Peter had last checked, which had been five minutes ago,  _thankyouverymuch._ That was when he realised that he wasn't just crying, he was sobbing. The silent type of sobbing you do when you find out something truly devastating in a public area. His chest wasn't heaving the way it would when he would thrash in his bed with Wade whispering reassurances, he was just crying openly. And that was okay.

  "Fuck, you're not okay." Said hands ushered him in briskly, guiding him with one hand at the small of his back. "Come here."

  A meer five minutes later, and they were both sitting on opposing ends of Wade's frankly disgusting couch, staring at each other in silence. Peter had a mug of hot chocolate wedged between his thighs, which he only faintly recognised was actually scalding him. Neither of them said anything, but it wasn't exactly the most comfortable silence the two had shared. 

  Wade didn't look angry, which was a relief, because if anything would get Peter really start to feel again - in the wrong way - it would be if one of the only people in the world he truly cared about was mad at him. Though he expected little else. He just looked perplexed as to what to do, it was clear that Wade was unaccustomed to being at the other side of mental breakdowns, the side that was expected to be the helping hand or the submissive ear. That was fine too.

  "I'm sorry," Peter said, breaking the silence. Sensationally, he could feel every syllable roll off his tongue perfectly, the rumble of his unused throat starting up again.

  "I know."

 

_But I know some day I'll make it out of here,_  
_Even if it takes all night or a hundred years._  
_Need a place to hide, but I can't find one near,_  
_Wanna feel alive, outside I can fight my fear._

 

  Peter thought he would've needed a team of burly men, and twenty-two diggers - one for each year of his life - to dig him out of the hole he had made for himself. The one he had succeeded in not only burrowing himself into but trapping himself in. Turns out he only needed one burly man, and a hell of a lot of perserverence on both of their parts.

  Wade had forgiven him, of course, he had. Depersonalisation was a tricky thing, so tricky that it was overlooked by most,  _"Depression? Sure! My three_ cousins _and uncle had depression, I totally know what you're going through."_

 Everyone knew depression, it was an unwittingly common affliction for millions of people globally. But derealisation? Depersonalisation? DDD? Not so much.

  Could they empathize with the fact that Peter felt thoroughly disconnected from reality? Absolutely. But did they truly understand what was going through his head? Did they really have ' _three cousins and an uncle'_ who constantly felt neglected from the universe? Or possibly a mother-in-law who constantly felt as if they were in a dream, grappling onto conversations with family, freinds and strangers with completely numb hands? Mm, not likely.

  Wade understood, he not only knew and understood what Peter was struggling with and what it entailed but recommended website after website, coping mechanism after coping mechanism. He sent him links, referrals to psychologists, articles in magazines. You name it. Wade emphasised to Peter that the most important step for him to take in tackling his affliction was acceptance, which was something they both needed to work on.

  Most importantly, Wade was there. Sometimes Peter was too, but sometimes he wasn't, not fully. And that, he supposed, was okay.

 

_Isn't it lovely, all alone?_  
_Heart made of glass, my mind of stone_  
_Tear me to pieces, skin and bone_  
_Hello, welcome home_  

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this fic brings even the smallest bit of awareness to a rather overlooked disorder. DDD is very difficult, and extraordinarily complicated mental disorder, if you feel as though resonate strongly with what I've written, possibly take the time out of your day/night to research the topic further.


End file.
